


On the Flipside

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Category: Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog
Genre: Gen, comical violence, pre-webseries, strange shoutouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The plan was foolproof.  Unfortunately, it wasn't FOOLSproof.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Flipside

**Author's Note:**

> Fanbingo square: “Physical Freestyle: Physical Violence.”

“It’s _finished!_ ” Dr. Horrible crows. He waits a beat, and then adds, “It’s _alive!_ ” He’s always wanted to say that. It’s not really alive, though; he’s not that kind of doctor. Despite its lack of aliveness, his new prototype transmatter raygun is a thing of beauty. “Moist!” he calls over his shoulder. “Come look!”

Horrible and Moist have a special relationship. Moist isn’t his henchman — not really. Maybe one day, when Horrible finally gets into the Evil League of Evil. Until then, Moist is really more of a friend who works a mediocre job and remembers to pick up his mail. He’s a friend, roommate, confidante, ride, and willing accomplice in a benefits package scam that may involve him pretending to be Horrible’s boyfriend until he can get the ELE’s comprehensive coverage. The point is, Moist doesn’t pay attention to his nefarious schemes because he _has_ to; he’s genuinely interested.

So when Moist pokes his head into the lab, Horrible knows the grin is real. “You’re finished? That is _awesome,_ dude. When do we test it?”

“I’m thinking tonight,” Horrible replies, stroking the barrel. Is that what you call the long part of a raygun? He really doesn’t know much about guns. “I figure, maybe take it out to the old warehouse district and make a building disappear?”

“Sweet.” Moist blinks. “Why a building?”

“I’m so glad you asked!” He really is; he’s been wanting to explain this to someone for ages. He should start a blog, or something. “Eventually, I want to fine-tune this technology to make very _precise_ things move through space and time, but I figure sometimes you gotta run before you can walk. So I’m going to send a warehouse to the bottom of the river and see how that goes.”

“An empty warehouse?”

“Oh, totally. The alternative would just be dangerous. Anyway,” he goes on with a shrug, “once I can move something huge and unwieldy I can get to work on the whole finesse thing.”

Moist studies the gun, leaning over to inspect its intricacies. Horrible moves it a little to the left to avoid the drops of sweat. “How does it work, exactly?”

He waves a hand. “Oh, you don’t want to hear that. It involves diodes and cletonium and stuff like that.”

His roommate shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Cletonium is pretty boring stuff.”

“Well,” Horrible protests, “not if you shake it.” When Moist concedes this point, Horrible strikes what he hopes is a sufficiently-evil pose. “Well then, tonight, horrible will be _just_ what the doctor ordered.”

“Doc. We talked about that.”

He deflates. “But catchphrases are _hard._ ”

***

Billy wonders how full-fledged supervillains spend their afternoons. You can’t be planning heists and spreading mayhem _all_ the time, so what does Dead Bowie do to unwind? Does Fury Leika pick up her dry cleaning? Where does Fake Thomas Jefferson do his grocery shopping? Billy supposes henchmen take care of all of that stuff. Henchmen or servants, even. Riches from heists were probably well invested so that Bad Horse will never have to go to a laundromat, or even do his own laundry. Wait, does Bad Horse need clothes? Probably not.

Sitting on a warm dryer is pretty fun, though.

Billy kicks his legs and grins a little, until he realizes he’s blocking someone’s path. He coughs awkwardly and slouches, dropping his gaze and trying to turn invisible. It doesn’t exactly work, but the other laundry-doing-person moves past him with a huge basket and without comment, so he can’t complain.

He starts fidgeting again after a minute or so. He can’t help it, he’s bored. Anxious. Excited about the experiment tonight. And anyway, his usual pacifying activity — pretty-redhead-watching — won’t work, because the sweet, beautiful, wonderful redhead isn’t here today.

He was going to talk to her and everything, too.

Maybe.

***

Dr. Horrible has Moist drive him to the warehouse district a little after midnight. From the pier, the river stretches out into the night. Behind them, the city skyline is only partially obscured with the rise of old, rickety warehouses.

“Makes you wonder why they keep so many of these old buildings around, huh?” Moist muses, shifting to park and popping the trunk.

“For supervillains like me to test their new inventions,” Horrible says, sliding out of the passenger seat and into the night. “It’s a big night, Moist. You smell that? It’s _horrible._ ”

“Yeah, I think something washed up around here.”

“I — no. No, that was the catchphrase.”

“… Okay, axing that one. Keep at it, Doc.”

Horrible doesn’t answer, opting to grab the transmatter ray and the tripod from the trunk and get started. _Some_ people have mad sciencing to do. “All right, I’m thinking that building right there.” He points at a building that looks much like all the others, except for the fact that he researched the address while ostensibly doing his day job, and happens to know there is nothing in there. Except maybe barrels and old wicker furniture, or … whatever is stashed in old, abandoned warehouses in the movies.

“Is your transmatter ray really called the transmatter ray?” Moist wants to know.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Dr. Horrible answers absently, checking the gun’s settings to make sure everything is properly calibrated and whatnot. No sense in this turning into some kind of comedy of errors.

He senses Moist shrug. “I dunno. It’s just, everyone probably calls their transmatter rays ‘transmatter rays.’ Maybe you should call them something else. Be different, cutting-edge. Like, movement ray? Teleporter ray?”

“I’m sorry, who is the mad scientist around here? Did anyone besides me suddenly obtain two S.D.s and a Ph.D. in Evil?”

Moist must know it’s a rhetorical question, but he answers anyway because he’s not Horrible’s henchman. “Well, there is Professor Pestilence.”

Horrible makes a face, lip curling up in a scowl. “Don’t get me started on that guy, with his M.D.s in Murder and Mayhem and all that other stuff. No wonder we never hear anything about him, anymore; you can’t plan heists when you’re in school all the time. ‘Tch.” He sets the transmatter ray to charge. “Also, biological weapons? Not cool.”

 _“DR. HORRIBLE!”_

The shout makes him jump, nearly knocking over the tripod. “What the—?!”

“Oh, man!” Moist gasps, pointing. “Doc, heads-up!”

Across the way, atop a warehouse roof, stands a silhouette against the moon. The fur trim of a parka moves gently in the breeze, which gives Johnny Snow away even without the ice beam gun propped on his shoulder.

“Oh, for — go away, Johnny!” he yells, as Moist presses a slightly slippery plasma gun into his glove. “I’m not arching you!”

Johnny Snow is not so easily deterred. The self-proclaimed arch-nemesis of Dr. Horrible leaps off the roof, making what is actually an impressive landing involving a couple of somersaults. Unfortunately, the end result is a Mexican standoff. Well, sort of.

“Checkmate,” Snow smirks.

“You mean _stalemate_ ,” Horrible corrects him. “And it isn’t.”

“How isn’t it?” Johnny hefts his gun for emphasis; it makes a menacing, frosty sound.

“Because there are three of us,” Horrible explains, “and two of us are on my side. Moist.”

“Right!” Moist agrees, and stands behind the transmatter ray. He has no idea how to use it or if it’s even on, but that’s the great thing about Moist — he’s always there for a friend.

“Just walk away, Johnny,” Dr. Horrible insists. “And you’ll live to fight another day.”

And for a moment, it looks like that’s what Johnny is going to do. He hesitates, his trigger-finger twitches, and Horrible allows himself to feel a smidgen of confidence, because this plan is foolproof.

 _“DR. HORRIBLE!”_

That shout startles them all. Horrible and Johnny nearly drop their guns, and Moist abandons ship, diving into his car and driving off before it can be used as a weapon. They have this part pretty well rehearsed, actually. Now not only will the car remain intact, but Moist can return when the dust clears and take Billy to the hospital.

Captain Hammer hits the ground running, shouting some bravado about how he knew Horrible was behind this, and justice will be served, and he should really surrender. Dr. Horrible fires a few plasma shots at the rampaging superhero, which doesn’t amount to anything, given he’s never really had good aim. The one blast that does land bounces off Hammer’s nigh-invulnernable bicep, and the ricochet sends a chunk of old building crashing to the ground. This forces Johnny Snow to take cover, and for that Horrible is glad, but now he has _two_ idiotic superheroes trying to catch him and one very preliminary-stage raygun prototype just standing there, waiting for something to go wrong.

He fires a few more shots at Johnny, then makes a break for it. Maybe the morons will try playing with the transmatter ray and trans themselves into goo, or something. That’d be conven—

“Ack—!”

—how does someone as large and graceless as Captain Hammer move so bloody fast? Horrible has run into Hammer more than a handful of times; it’s like slamming into a steel pole. A steel pole with a _stupid face._

“Hey there, Doc, leaving so soon?”

“You did not just say that,” he protests, even as one massive gloved hand twists into his labcoat and hoists him into the air. “Really, say you didn’t.” That last part comes out more like “r-r-r-r-ea-ea-lly s-a-a-a-ay” and so on, because he’s being shaken like a leaf held in front of a jet engine. He remembers he’s holding a gun, but not before Captain Hammer remembers to take it away and crush it into a little ball. He kicks, grabs at the hand on his coat, but one well-executed punch later he’s considerably pacified.

“Tell me, Doctor, do you make _house calls_?” Hammer grins at an imaginary camera. “Because you’re headed to a _big one_.”

“You’re not on TV,” Horrible points out, planting his feet on Hammer’s chest and trying to push himself free. “And I’m not that kind of doctor.”

“I’ll _tell you_ what kind of doctor you are,” Hammer declares, turning up the cheese, “you’re—”

“Hey, come on!” Johnny Snow’s protest makes them pause and glance in his direction. The lesser-known superhero looks out of breath, but he’s still armed and looking like he wants to mete out justice.

“Can I help you, slugger?” Captain Hammer wants to know.

“This was my gig!” Johnny replies. “I got here first and he’s _my_ nemesis.”

“No, I’m not,” Horrible croaks.

“No, he’s not,” Hammer agrees. “Listen, kiddo, if you want, you can have my autograph after I’m done here. Just stay out of my way and leave this to the professionals.”

Horrible can’t resist. “Why, you see any around?”

“How’s your dental coverage, Doc?”

He actually can’t answer that one, what with his face being up close and personal with a wall and everything. His ears are ringing. How did he get so close to a wall? Where is he, anyway?

“What’s that sound?” Hammer wonders.

My teeth clattering in my skull, Horrible wants to say.

“It’s coming from — there!” Johnny cries. “Hang on, I got it!”

Then everything happens at once. Hammer turns around, taking Horrible with him, and through swimming vision Horrible sees the transmatter ray is what’s been beeping. Beeping … and … pointing right at him. Them. Johnny performs a grossly unnecessary combat roll and fires his ice beam — Hammer yells something unintelligible — and the transmatter ray goes off—

—And nothing.

***

“—rrible.

“Dr. Horrible!”

“Uhn … whaa?”

There are three undoubtedly terrible ways to wake up: having soiled yourself after a nightmare, having Fury Leika staring down at you with that crazed glaze in her eyes, or having Captain Hammer slap you senseless.

“Dr. Horrible!”

Billy’s conscious enough to feel the slap this time. It knocks his head to the right and makes his stomach lurch. He lifts a hand in surrender before another blow can land. “O- _kay_ , no more — hitting.” He opens his eyes, and at first he thinks he’s blind in the left, but that’s only because his goggles are askew. Probably from all the _slapping._ Sure enough, once his vision sharpens, he sees Captain Tool staring down at him, and also they are on Mars, for some reason?

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Billy sits up, gloved hands coming up to cover his mouth, wondering how he’s breathing and where are they and _oh my god_ where are they? “Where are we?!”

“That’s my question for you, Doctor!” Captain Hammer shouts, his booming voice echoing across the expanse of … Mars, or wherever. He grabs Billy’s labcoat again and draws back his other arm for a punch. “I think it’s time you brought us home.”

“I don’t even know where we _are_ ,” Billy insists. He winces and waits for the blow to land, and opens one cautious eye when it doesn’t.

Hammer is stroking his chin. “That’s just what you’d want me to think.”

“Why is it so dark here?” Billy wonders.

“I don’t have time for your games, Doctor! That ice villain friend of yours could do a lot of damage while I’m stuck here, and I can’t let that happen.”

Billy rolls his eyes. “Johnny Snow is a superhero — ugh, never mind.”

“Take us back!” Hammer orders. “Now!”

Hammer must have an appointment back home, because instead of beating the snot out of Billy, like usual, he skips ahead to encircling warm, gloved hands around his neck and strangling him, instead. Billy tries explaining that Hammer won’t get answers if he’s fainted, and that he needs to be awake in order to _science things_ , but all this falls on deaf ears and there are black dots in his field of vision and the world is blurring around its edges. His cheeks hurt, his head hurts, his teeth still hurt, and like. He’s on _Mars_ , or something. It’s kind of all too much.

So he vomits.

***

Everything about Captain Hammer is legendary: his looks, his strength, his invulnerability — and his reflexes. So when Dr. Horrible throws up what looks to be like an entire tub of frozen yogurt, Hammer is already five feet away, watching with morbid fascination. It’s a miracle Horrible didn’t get any on himself, having pitched forward in raw panic to his hands and knees.

When it’s finally over, his arch-nemesis pushes up on his knees for a second before stumbling back a few paces, falling on his rump and looking kind of small and pathetic.

Hammer gives him a golf-clap. “Gotta hand it to you, Doctor, that was quite the diversion.”

“Diversion?” Horrible echoes, straightening his goggles. He sounds more awake now, more ready to play ball. “Wait, okay, this is why I didn’t want to test the transmatter ray on anything serious yet. The diodes are unstable, and Johnny’s ice beam must have caused…”

Hammer tunes him out at this point, because he’s monologuing about science and machines and other things that don’t involve hitting bad guys. As Dr. Horrible drones on and on about math, photosynthesis, and probably how amazing Captain Hammer is, Captain Hammer studies the atmosphere. Something about the dark sky and rugged, suspended landscape seems eerily familiar, but Hammer can’t put his hammer on it, yet.

“Are you even listening to me?” Dr. Horrible demands, gesturing wildly with a beretta pistol.

Hammer moves like lightning, seizing Horrible’s wrist and forcing him to aim the gun into the air. “More tricks up your sleeve, Doctor?”

“Wait, you idiot! _Wait!_ ”

There’s such panic in his enemy’s voice, Hammer actually waits. “What?”

“It’s not a _gun_. It may be our only ticket out of here. Let me go.”

Hammer raises an eyebrow. “Let you go-o-o…?” he drags it out just because he can.

“Please?” Horrible amends, wincing.

Hammer releases him, and then the next problem shows up. The air next to them shimmers, shifts, and takes shape. When light and shadow merge into a seven-foot tall angry barbarian, Captain Hammer punches his hand.

“NOW I know where we are!”

“What?” Horrible looks confused, and then he notices the Thunderer. “GAH!”

The Thunderer swings one massive arm. Hammer ducks; Horrible goes flying somewhere, but at least he’s out of the way. Hammer flexes his biceps and plants his feet firmly in a fighting stance. “Did you miss the Hammer?”

***

Billy thinks a couple of his ribs are cracked. It hurts to breathe. Just once he’d maybe like to walk away from a heist. Not limp, not be dragged — just walk. He doesn’t feel like walking now, though. Now he just wants to lie here, slumped against this jagged rock, and pretend to be dead so everyone will leave him alone. He considers, for a moment, putting his goggles on so no one can see his eyes — so no one will come after him. Is that stupid? Does it even make sense? He’s still kind of dizzy. Some supervillain. Anyway, the emergency transmatter mini-ray is safe, and that’s all that matters. He has some tools stowed in his labcoat; maybe he can whip it into shape before some half-naked barbarian kills him.

 _Get a hold of yourself, Billy,_ he thinks, fervently. _You’re Dr. Horrible. Dr. Horrible wouldn’t be scared of a barbarian in a scary helmet, would he?_ Maybe unarmed, yeah — but Captain Hammer is … Captain Hammer seems to be taking care of business over there, so Billy takes a deep breath and Dr. Horrible gets to work as fast as he can.

***

The Thunderer puts up a valiant fight, but Captain Hammer is Captain-fucking-Hammer. They brawl and scrap until Hammer punches the Thunderer so hard, so often, that it can’t bear to give itself form anymore and dissipates.

Victory in hand, Hammer strikes a pose and tosses his head. He knows that makes his hair look awesome. “A hero am I!” he cries, feeling a song coming on.

“What _was_ that thing?” a small voice pipes up from the sidelines.

Oh, right. Dr. Horrible. Hammer turns to his arch-nemesis, fists on his hips, chest proudly displayed. “Your savior returns!”

“You never left.”

“Feel free to shower me with gratitude.”

“Um—”

“You will notice I did not, in fact, throw you at him as a distraction.”

“Thank … you?”

“What’cha got goin’ on there, Doc?” Hammer comes to sit beside him, glancing at the impromptu experiment in his lap.

Horrible stares at him, mouth agape. “You really _weren’t_ listening. I can’t believe you. Don’t you want to get out of here? I just explained to you how I was gonna—”

“ _Oh_ , is that what that was? Eh, yeah,” he reaches out vaguely to pat the kid on the head. “Nice work, sport. Keep at it.”

Dr. Horrible squirms out of reach. “You ungrateful _knob_. And I’m not a _kid._ ”

Hammer gives him a sidelong glance. He’s on the small side, but yeah, Hammer can see the barest hint of stubble there. “We’re in Qward,” he says.

“Where?”

Hammer shrugs. “Some kind of anti-matter dimension place, I dunno. I don’t pay attention to the details. I’ve ended up here once before. You tend to get tossed around dimensions in my line of work.” He rotates one arm, working the muscle. “I didn’t realize it at first, but that Thunderer confirmed it. Pretty sure they were called Thunderers.”

Dr. Horrible raises an eyebrow. “So … how did you escape the last time?”

“Didn’t.”

“ … Didn’t?”

“Didn’t. I waited for a dimensional rift to open and just hopped out. I actually don’t remember if it just happened, or if Wingspan or Elementia had something to do with it on the other side.”

Now Dr. Horrible looks worried. “How long did you have to wait?”

“I actually don’t remember.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“Nope, really don’t.” He leans back against the rocks, looking up at the dark sky, lost in the memory of beating everything in this universe senseless. “I basically just beat up anything that came at me until the rift opened again.” He looks down at Dr. Horrible again. His nemesis is squeezing his head so hard, it looks like his goggles might pop off. “Relax, Doc. How long can you go without food?”

“Argh!”

Hammer shrugs, and settles in to wait, watching the sky. Beside him, Dr. Horrible flips out some more and makes grandiose gestures with his tiny instruments. This goes on and on, the doctor’s voice like exceptionally boring white noise, until finally there’s a lull.

“… Well?” Dr. Horrible demands. “What do you think?”

Hammer makes a face. “Think about what?”

The next few things that come out of Horrible’s mouth, well, Hammer didn’t think he was old enough to know what they even meant.

“Have you ever even done that?” Hammer asks. “You should do it, before you say it. It gives you credibility.”

“I can’t _believe_ you!” Dr. Horrible shouts. “How can you be a superhero? You can’t even pay attention to me for thirty seconds, and I’m actively trying to save your life. How do you _fix_ anything?”

Captain Hammer shrugs again. “I dunno. Usually I just smack things around until they start going my way.”

“I—” it comes out as a strangled croak.

“Yeah, Doc?”

“I—”

“Uh-huh?”

“I, I—”

“Come on, you’ll get it.”

“I. _Hate._ You.”

***

L.A.’s warehouse district starts hopping again around five a.m. Fortunately, it’s only a little after one. The transmatter ray still occasionally sputters with the barest hint of life, but Moist and Johnny Snow are wisely standing several feet behind it.

“So, you like Trader Joe’s?” Moist asks, trying to fill the silence. “I like it for some things, but you know.”

“Wal-Mart’s probably better,” Johnny admits. “But I just can’t bring myself to shop there.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

It gets awkward again. Johnny starts fussing with his parka. Moist starts bouncing on his toes. It’s better than fighting, anyway. Moist doesn’t belong on the front line of any super battle, and Johnny Snow’s only interested in Doc. So here they are, waiting for Doc and Hammer to come back from … wherever … and making idle chitchat.

“Supposed to rain today,” Snow comments.

“Yeah? That’s actually better for me.”

The universe crackles and comes apart, right over the water. Moist’s jaw drops, because it’s pretty and green and looks just like on TV — and if the world would open up, of course it would be in L.A.

“Whoa!” Johnny Snow gasps.

“Dude,” Moist adds.

The green slice in reality disappears then, leaving Hammer and Doc suspended above the river for a brief moment. Hammer drops like a boulder, cannonballing like nobody’s business; Doc’s arms windmill a couple of times before he makes a less-impressive splash.

“Whoa,” Johnny says again.

“Doc!” Moist calls, running for the water. Dr. Horrible can swim, but those goggles are pretty heavy so you never know.

“TRUCE!” Captain Hammer bellows, surfacing with Doc under his arm.

“Truce?” Johnny parrots, perplexed.

“Truce,” Hammer confirms. He squeezes Doc, who spits up water and maybe a minnow or two. “Here ya go,” he says to Moist, and before he’s ready Moist gets an armful of sodden scientist that knocks him over.

“Why is there a truce?” Johnny asks.

Hammer leaps onto the dock, and somehow his soggy hair looks great. “Just because.”

Moist gets Doc upright, slings an arm around his shoulders and secures another around his waist. “Is there really a truce?” he murmurs.

“Until next time, Captain Hammer,” Doc manages in a shaky voice. “To the Horriblemobile!”

Moist sighs, but begins the limp of shame to the car. “I wish you wouldn’t call it that. And what happened to you, anyway?”

“I met the Green Lantern!”

“Really. The Green Lantern.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty swell. Or maybe he was a Red Lantern? There are so many, I don’t know. My ribs hurt. Can we order pizza?”

Moist buckles him in and almost doubles back for the transmatter ray. He decides against it; Hammer will surely smash it before he leaves. “Hospital first, maybe. Swing by home for your street clothes?”

“I swallowed some fish. Have you ever traveled through reality? It’s _funky._ ”

“Is now a good time to tell you my benefit deductions have increased due to the high cost?”

“… _Funky._ ”

 

~End.


End file.
